


with a beautiful sigh and a river of lies

by madgrad2011



Series: Out of the Ash [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Lydia-centric, Missing Scenes, Past Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Slow Burn Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madgrad2011/pseuds/madgrad2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin scoffs at scars and all the metaphorical bullshit people assign to them. Scars are evidence of the body’s ability to knit itself back together with fibrous tissue; they are not some kind of x-marks-the-spot treasure map to her heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with a beautiful sigh and a river of lies

_There is a charge  
_

_For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge_  
_For the hearing of my heart-  
_ _It really goes._

_And there is a charge, a very large charge_  
_For a word or a touch  
_ _Or a bit of blood_

_Or a piece of my hair or my clothes._

_Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”_

* * *

Lydia Martin scoffs at scars and all the metaphorical bullshit people assign to them. Scars are evidence of the body’s ability to knit itself back together with fibrous tissue; they are not some kind of x-marks-the-spot treasure map to her heart.

She lays on top of her patterned comforter counting each slow rotation of the ceiling fan, the cotton material soft and cool beneath her bare legs. Her long hair is perched precariously on top of her head in a loose knot. Strands that have escaped the elastic fan across her pillow, tickling her ears, and sticking to her mint-flavored lipgloss.

Her head sinks further into the space between her feather pillows as frustration settles more firmly in her mind and on her chest. She huffs in annoyance, smacking the comforter with her left hand and relishing the squeak of protest her mattress releases in response to her vehemence.

Prior to sophomore year, Lydia had three scars.

The first one she earned in second grade during a game of Red Rover. A gangly boy with blonde hair had accidentally knocked her over while trying to break through her team’s line, one of his outstretched hands catching her right shoulder and sending her tumbling. She had scraped her right elbow, bruised her hip, and ripped the hem of her favorite flowered dress.

Lydia remembers the feel of Danny’s hand in hers as he walked her to the nurse’s office, the sharp smell of antiseptic, and the nurse’s tender tutting as she cleaned the wound. The scrape had been small but deep, and left a tiny scar shaped like Delaware on the skin above her elbow.

She got her second scar when she was eleven. In her quest to reach a bag of pumpkin-shaped Reese’s on top of the refrigerator, Lydia had quietly - and awkwardly - carried one of the polished wooden chairs out of the dining room to use as a makeshift step-stool while her parents argued in the den.

She remembers how smooth the wood felt under her stockinged-feet as she stood on her tiptoes, and how her stomach flipped-flopped in panic when she felt the chair rock slightly and her feet begin to slip. She had fallen forward, hitting her head on the corner of the faux-marble countertop. The short gash had required three stitches and left a thin, white scar just above her left eyebrow.

(Unfortunately, there weren’t enough stitches in the world to mend the tear in her heart when her father moved out four months later. Lydia thought that wound was probably still weeping, but she would never admit that aloud...)

The circumstances that led to Lydia receiving her third scar remain a little hazy. But, she remembers the sharp, sweet taste of her bourbon and ginger ale and the feeling of Jackson’s arm around her waist - his hand gripping her hip protectively - as he maneuvered the two of them out of Danny’s house.

She must have tripped on something; maybe a rock, but most likely her own feet. Jackson had tried to stop her from falling, but her right knee still hit the concrete around the Mahealani’s pool. He had half-carried her over to a lawn chair so he could examine her bleeding knee.

“I think you’ll live,” he had smiled ruefully, the light from inside the house reflecting off the pool behind him and softening the lines of his face. She remembers his mouth tasting tart when she kissed him.

The scar on her right knee was round, and had the texture of a scrape. That night happened before they had sex. Before Jackson became the star of the lacrosse team. Before she realized just how cruel he could be.

Before everything went to shit, really.

Lydia gently pulls up the hem of her black Led Zeppelin t-shirt (one of the only things she kept that belonged to her father). Her bare feet move restlessly as she tries to make herself more comfortable.

“Dammit,” she hisses as the big toe of her left foot scrapes against the blister blooming on the ball of her right. She pauses, her fingers hovering over the slightly swollen, scabed skin of her left side.

It’s a habit she would like to break like popping her gum or cracking her knuckles...her avoidance of touching these scars.

Her newest scars.

“It’s your body, Lydia,” she growls through gritted teeth. Her fingers, cold and hesitant, brush the skin just above the jagged wounds that Melissa McCall carefully stitched together nearly three weeks ago. She has to touch them if only to prove that she still has some control over herself; over the mind and body that betrayed her and sent her running through the Reserve in a fugue state.

She knows that there is no logical reason for her hesitance, and this infuriates her. She is intelligent, driven, and methodical. She prides herself on the control she wields in all aspects of her life. Nothing catches her off guard because she’s always thinking five steps ahead.

Well, she thinks bitterly, nothing except a rogue mountain lion on a lacrosse field.

Her fingers still.

And surprisingly, she muses, a lanky boy named Stiles Stilinski. That he had a crush on her was embarrassingly obvious. ( _Well I think you look really beautiful_ , he had said.) That he would be the one to see through her carefully crafted facade was not.

Lydia shakes her head and refocuses on the task at hand. She will not allow herself to fall prey to this irrational fear of self. This is her body.

Hers.

“I will not,” she says fiercely, her fingers creeping towards the closest stitches. The tip of her index finger brushes against a piece of twine and she forces herself not to recoil. She inhales sharply through her nose and bites her bottom lip, her right hand clutching the comforter.

Her left hand trembles as it makes its slow trek down her abdomen. The fan’s languidly-spinning blades blur as tears of frustration fill her eyes.

Her hand comes to rest on her side with her fingers spread wide, her pinky finger just brushing the top of her purple pajama shorts. After what feels like an eternity, her index, middle, and third fingers gently cover the three most prominent gashes.

She releases her lip and closes her eyes. A few tears drip onto her pillows.

This is my body now, Lydia thinks. She presses her left hand more firmly to her side. Her skin will heal. The angry, red gashes will eventually shrink and fade. But, the scars will always be there.

Lydia keeps her left hand pressed against her side as she uses the back of her right to wipe away the remnants of her tears. The fan gradually comes back into focus; she counts each slow rotation of its blades, carefully tracing each stitch with still-trembling fingers.

They are just scars, she lies to herself.

***

The ice is cold beneath her hands, its wetness seeping into her stockings. Her scream turns into a high-pitched screech as her throat grows raw and her tongue dry and heavy. Her mouth cracks at the corners; small drops of blood bloom on her painted lips.

She feels someone’s arms around her. Warm hands wipe away her tears.

“Shhh, Lydia,” someone whispers, “Shhhh.” As Lydia’s vision focuses, she realizes that Allison is kneeling on the ice in front of her. Scott crouches beside Allison, one hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia?” A male voice says beside her. She turns to face the speaker with a tear-streaked face. Stiles’ arms still encircle her shoulders; his large hands rubbing circles on her back and arms. She hiccups between sobs.

“Allison,” Lydia cries, throwing herself into her best friend’s arms.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Allison replies as she holds her tightly. Scott’s hand continues to rest on Allison’s shoulder. Lydia can feel Stiles’ hands on her back. Her stockings are completely soaked through, her knees bruised.

Allison drives her home in silence.  Lydia rests her forehead on the cool glass of the window and closes her eyes. She can still feel the ghost of Stiles’ warm hand in hers as he walked her to Allison’s car.The man she saw in the ice haunts her dreams, and Lydia fears that she’s going insane.

***

When the man grins at her in the cold light of the Worm Moon, she knows she has.

* * *

Mud squelches between her toes as she shuffles forward through the thick layer of wet leaves. Sunlight pierces the forest’s canopy in select spots, the refracted light casting tiny rainbows on the damp ground and on the rough trunks of the trees. She inhales. The recent rain has cleansed the air. A quiet breeze rustles through the overgrowth carrying with it the dull scent of decomposition.

Lydia looks up and sighs. Her breath mists in the chilly air.

The few remaining green leaves fluttering on the branches of the deciduous trees begin to change color in the afternoon light, the reds and yellows of autumn speckling each leaf’s waxy surface like dripping paint. She hums in approval, running her fingertips over the bark of the nearest tree.

There is a flash of purple in her periphery. She flattens her hand on the surface of the tree and turns her head to look for its source.

It’s a flowering plant with large purple blooms and dark green leaves. It’s tendrils stretch towards the dying sun and sway in the breeze. The fragrance emanating from the flowers is almost palatable. A sharp, sweet scent that tastes bitter on her tongue.

Lydia licks her lips and closes her eyes as she struggles to remember the plant’s name. She grunts in frustration, her fingertips gently scraping against the bark beneath her hand.

Maybe touching the plant will help me remember, she thinks.

Her steps are unsteady in the faltering light. She moves forward slowly - cautiously - with her arms outstretched. Her hands open and close in the twilight air.

When she reaches the plant, she crouches, her bare feet sinking slightly into the dirt. Lydia grasps one of the purple blooms in her hand; the strong scent released from its bruised petals makes her dizzy.

“What are you?” She whispers, clutching the base of the plant and beginning to pull. Her breathing grows labored as she doubles her efforts to remove the plant from the ground.

“Finally,” Lydia groans aloud as the plant begins to give way, its roots emerging from the loose earth. She tumbles backwards as she pulls the plant free.

She sits on the ground, winded, clasping the waxy plant to her chest. Nearly all of its blooms are crushed. Purple pollen settles in the wrinkles and pleats of her dress. She sneezes.

The ground in front of her shifts slightly. She shakes her head and blinks rapidly.

It had to be a trick of the light, she thinks. She stands slowly on unsteady feet still trying to catch her breath. The dirt moves again and a hand pushes through the soil’s top layer, its skin burnt and weeping puss.

Lydia stumbles backwards with a yelp as a second hand bursts through the ground showering her with leaves and dirt. Two arms, a head, and a torso emerge in quick succession. Still clutching the plant in one hand, she uses the sleeve of her sweater to wipe the debris from her eyes.

“This isn’t happening,” she gasps in horror as the body of a man springs from the earth like an autochthon. A lump fills her throat as adrenaline pumps through her body. She drops the plant and turns to run.

The man catches her quickly, his bloody fingers digging into her upper arms as he swings her around to face him. Lydia wriggles in his grasp. Flakes of burnt skin flutter off his body like paper butterflies. The man snarls, shaking her firmly.

“Let me go,” she chokes out, closing her eyes.

“Tsk tsk, Lydia,” he replies, his voice low and guttural. Lydia slowly opens her eyes as something wet drops on her raised fist. Blood drips from a deep wound in the man’s throat, and falls in thin rivulets down his emaciated chest.

“Please,” she whimpers. The man gives her a cracked, lopsided grin and leans towards her.

“Never,” he taunts as he places his deteriorating mouth over hers and swallows her scream.

***

“Lydia? Lydia!”

She wakes up with a gasp, thrashing against the hands pinning her arms to the bed. Her face is wet and she tastes blood in her mouth.

“Let me go,” she stutters through her tears.

“Lydia, it’s me!” Allison responds. “You’re okay! You’re safe.”

Lydia stops writhing, her chest heaving and eyes closed. Allison loosens her grip and sits back on her heels, her breathing unsteady. The sound of the clock down the hall ticking away the seconds fills the silence.

Lydia opens her eyes as her heart rate slows and her breaths become more even. Allison is watching her; her newly-cut hair is tangled with sleep and there are flecks of mascara on her cheeks. Lydia slowly pushes herself up into a seated position, her back resting against her headboard.

The silver light of the waxing moon peeks through the blinds and stripes her bedroom’s carpeted floor. May is nearly over; the moon will soon be full again.

And, Lydia remembers, the Argents are leaving for France in a week.

“You were having a nightmare,” Allison finally says, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Lydia agrees. The taste of blood lingers on her tongue, and the inside of her right cheeks aches. She must have bitten it while dreaming.

Allison shifts to sit beside her, pulling a pillow to her chest and resting her chin on one of its corners.

“I’ve been having a lot of those myself recently,” Allison admits wryly, chewing on her bottom lip.

Lydia nods, staring ahead.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Lydia slowly shakes her head as her eyes start to fill with tears. She clenches and unclenches her fists. The short, thin scars on her knuckles from where she hit her mirror appear pale in the early morning light. Allison moves closer and gently places one hand on Lydia’s shoulder.

“Was it about Peter?” Allison asks quietly.

Lydia begins to cry harder, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Allison pulls her into a tight embrace, the pillow she had been holding falling off the bed with a quiet thump.

“It’s okay,” she whispers soothingly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Allison’s hair is soft and smells like Lydia’s coconut shampoo. Lydia feels something wet on her shoulder and she realizes that Allison is crying too. Her breath hitches and she tightens her hold on Allison’s thin frame.

We’re both broken, Lydia thinks. Fragile little dolls made of porcelain.

Cracked. Chipped. Faded.

Scarred.

She wishes they could go back in time. Back to when the closest they’d come to the supernatural had been watching a marathon of Lost Tapes on Animal Planet.

She doesn’t want this. This ever-present fear of the unknown. This feeling of helplessness. This hopelessness.

She didn’t ask for it.

“I hate this,” Lydia says bitterly, her voice slightly muffled. She gently extricates herself from Allison’s embrace and presses her palms over her eyes.

“I look at myself and all I see is him,” she mutters. “What I did to bring him back from the dead.”

She uncovers her eyes and tilts her head towards the ceiling. “I hate myself for what I’ve done. And I hate that I hate myself, too.”

“Lydia,” Allison says softly, reaching out to cup Lydia’s cheeks in her hands. “Peter assaulted you. None of this is your fault.”

“Then why do I feel like it is?” she asks brokenly, closing her eyes and leaning into Allison’s touch. Her hands are warm and steady.

“Lydia, look at me.”

She reluctantly opens her eyes.

“Peter is not your fault,” Allison says forcefully, her jaw clenched. “That son of a bitch attacked you on the lacrosse field. He invaded your mind and manipulated you into bringing him back to life. No one blames you for that.”

I do, she thinks.

She remembers Derek’s look of surprise when she opened her hand and blew the powdered wolfsbane into his face.

He probably blames her too.

“You are the smartest person I know,” Allison continues, relaxing slightly. She removes her hands from Lydia’s face and places them in her lap. “You’re going to get through this.”

Lydia pulls her knees into her chest and sighs. She’s not so sure. She watches the slivers of moonlight on her floor shift as the moon begins to set.

“What kinds of nightmares have you been having?” Lydia asks. Allison grimaces and tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

“Gerard-related,” she responds lightly. Lydia nods in understanding.

That night had been a crash-course (literally) in the supernatural. Stiles had tried to prepare her as they raced through Beacon Hills in his Jeep.

“So, you’re telling me that werewolves cause all the weird stuff that happens in this town?” She had asked him skeptically, her lips pursed.

“Yeah,” Stiles had replied as he ran a red light, “werewolves and now kanimas.”

“Stiles!” She had exclaimed as he jerked the steering wheel to the left in order to pass another car on the narrow street, nearly throwing Lydia into his lap.

“Shit! Sorry!” he had yelped, his cheeks reddening slightly beneath the scrapes and bruises.

“Let me get this straight,” she had huffed in response with a roll of her eyes. “Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and Derek are all werewolves?”

Stiles nodded vigorously.

“And Jackson is a-”

“Homicidal lizard,” Stiles had interjected. Lydia glared at him. He shrugged.

“But, how?” She had muttered, her brow furrowed as her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the door handle. “Why isn’t he a werewolf too?”

“We’re not sure because usually you either turn or you die, but we think he might be having a giant lizard-sized identity crisis,” Stiles had replied, running another red light. Lydia gritted her teeth.

“Jackson asked Derek to bite him because he wanted to become a werewolf like Scott. Derek could turn him because he became the Alpha after he killed Peter-”

“Peter?” Lydia had interrupted. “You mean-”

“The guy you brought back to life? Yeah, he used to be the Alpha. He was actually the one who bit Scott and started all this chaos.” Stiles paused. He glanced at Lydia and noticed her startled expression.

“Lydia?” He had asked.

“He was the one who attacked me on the lacrosse field,” She had said slowly, piecing the story together. “He was still the Alpha when he attacked me.”

Stiles didn’t respond.

“Stiles, why didn’t I become a werewolf?” She had asked. He kept his eyes on the road.

“Stiles!” she had snapped. “What’s going on? What happened to me?”

They were almost to the warehouse. He met her accusatory stare with curiosity in his eyes. She felt vulnerable and exposed - like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“I don’t know,” he had replied just before the speeding Jeep crashed through the warehouse wall and immobilized Jackson in his kanima form.

She hadn’t thought to question him further after that.

“Have you talked to your dad about what happened?” Lydia finally asks, resting her head on her knees.

“A little,” Allison responds. “That’s one of the reasons why we’re taking the trip to France. We need to figure out who we are as a family again without Gerard. Without my mom.”

Lydia holds out one of her hands. Allison grasps it gratefully.

“You know, if Peter’s not my fault, then Gerard isn’t yours,” Lydia states. Allison gives her a shrug and a half-hearted smile.

They sit in silence as the sun begins to rise.

***

“Allison,” Mr. Argent calls from the car. “We’re going to be late for our flight.”

“Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m in France,” Allison says, hugging Lydia for the tenth time on the Martins’ front porch.

Lydia squeezes Allison’s hands and rolls her eyes. “I’ll try not to,” she replies sarcastically.

“Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Allison says seriously.

( _And if you died I would go out of my freaking mind_ , whispers a memory.)

“Ditto,” Lydia responds a little breathlessly.

“Allison!” Mr. Argent calls again. Allison bounces on the balls of her feet.

“You better get going,” Lydia prompts, nodding in the direction of the car.

“Call me when you can,” Allison continues as she moves toward the porch stairs. “And, promise you’ll call Scott or Stiles if something happens.”

“I promise.”

Allison steps lightly down the stairs before turning back to Lydia. “I’ll miss you,” she smiles.

The bright, summer sun brings out the undertones of red in Allison’s dark brown hair. Her smile is soft and relaxed, her cheeks  flushed pink with excitement.

“I’ll miss you more,” she responds with a small wave.

* * *

She sits on the dock by the lake at her grandmother’s house, her feet dangling above the water. The sun-lightened wood beneath her bare legs still retains heat. It’s a nice contrast to the cool breeze blowing in off the lake. Lydia pulls her light-weight, purple cardigan closed over her black bikini. Her flip-flops rest next to her on the dock.

She likes to slowly dip her toes into the lake and count the ripples caused by disturbing the surface tension of the water. It’s an experiment she’s practiced for years - to see how large the ripples can grow before the lake’s short waves break them apart.

There’s a metaphor there, Lydia thinks. But she doesn’t dwell on it.

Allison and her father left for France nearly three weeks ago; they were staying in Lyon researching the Argent family history and brushing up on their French. The few times she and Allison had Skyped, Lydia found herself listening more than talking. She took comfort in the cadence of Allison’s voice and in her enthusiasm for the history and culture she was encountering.

“How are you?” Allison would always ask near the end of the call.

“Healing,” Lydia would answer with a small smile.

“How are you emotionally?” Allison would clarify, quirking an eyebrow.

“Healing,” Lydia would repeat, affectionately rolling her eyes.

She never mentioned her nightmares.

She shivers a little as the sun begins to fall below the horizon. Pink light skips across the water and reflects off the small windows of the boat house. The dock has started to cool. A few bright stars herald the onset of the evening hours.

Lydia stands, slips on her sandals, and strolls toward the house. The yellow grass is dry and brittle from the area’s recent lack of rain; it crinkles beneath her feet and tickles her exposed toes. She sighs.

Only a little wistfully.

Last summer, she and Jackson had spent every morning at the lake before going to his parents’ empty house to make out and, eventually, to have sex. Their first time had been hurried, awkward, and a little painful. But, she had loved the way he looked at her with the warm sun streaming in through the half-closed blinds behind him.

Lydia would never forget the softness in his eyes or his quiet moan when he slid inside her. After he finished, she had brushed her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead as he buried his face in her chest with a sated sigh.

He had given her the key to his house at the end of that summer.

That was before he became so guarded with her, and she became so mistrustful of him. Before his bitterness and ambition consumed him. Before his cruelty revealed itself as insecurity in front of Stiles’ Jeep.

That was also before he became a full-fledged werewolf and moved to London.

The move didn’t surprise her. She had run into Danny at the grocery store at the beginning of the summer. He had told her about the Whittemores’ hasty decision to move abroad while they stood in the produce section among the apples, oranges, and nectarines. There would be no goodbye parties, Danny said. Or tearful farewells, Lydia thought. Their move would be quiet. Discreet.

She expected the news to devastate her.

She looks back at the darkening lake, blows a bubble with her gum, and pops it with her index finger.

But it didn’t.

She wraps her cardigan more securely around her slim frame and walks up the porch stairs to sit on the swing. She can hear her mom making dinner in the kitchen, singing along to a song on the radio. Lydia uses her feet to gently push the wooden swing backwards and forwards in time to the lilting melody of the song.

She had tried to feel devastated. She really, really had. After everything she had been through in the last few months, she craved normalcy; she had wanted to experience the feelings of grief that nearly always followed a bad breakup.

All she feels, though, is numb indifference.

She shifts and stretches her legs out on the swing, leaning back against a stack of pillows and humming along to the soft music.

She knows her lack of emotion is simply a side effect of the trauma she experienced or, more accurately, her avoidance of it because of the hours she spent researching PTSD and its symptoms.

She also knows that avoidance and repression aren’t the healthiest approaches to healing.

But, being emotionally numb is preferable to thinking about how she had been physically assaulted and mentally violated by a homicidal, vengeance-driven werewolf. Or, about how she had once been in love with a boy who had become a murderer…albeit not intentionally.

Lydia watches the last of the day’s light fade into darkness. Her mother turns the radio up slightly as one of her favorite songs starts to play. She taps her fingers on her thighs in time to the beat.

She remembers the vulnerability in Jackson’s eyes when she admitted she still loved him, the strength of his embrace, and the way he smelled (a mixture of sweat, blood, and Irish Spring soap) as they stood in front of Stiles’ Jeep. Wrapped in his arms, she naively thought that they would be okay - that they could move past what had happened and help each other heal.

Jackson dashed that hope, of course, as soon as he pulled away. The harsh light from the headlights had thrown his grim face into sharp relief. The vulnerability in his eyes had been replaced by anger, the heat of his gaze causing her to take an involuntary step back.

“Jackson?” She had asked quietly, one hand reaching out to touch his arm.

He glanced at the individuals spread around the room, and his muscles tensed. She withdrew her hand.

“Thanks for returning my key,” Jackson had finally replied through gritted teeth, his eyes averted. In that moment, she realized that he still blamed and resented her for everything that happened.

( _You ruined it for me! You ruined everything_ , echoes in her head.)

She also realized that she would never speak to him again.

She nodded once in response, wiping her tears away with both hands. Jackson turned on his heel and walked towards Derek, who had watched the exchange with a guarded expression. Lydia took a deep breath before turning to face Scott and Stiles.

“Could you give me a ride to my car please?” She had asked Stiles. His hands were on his hips and his eyes were red.

“Um. Yeah,” he had sniffed. “Get in.”

They rode back to his house in silence. Stiles didn’t run any red lights. She counted the number of street lamps they passed.

When they arrived, she quickly climbed out of the Jeep and walked towards her car, shivering in the brisk early-morning air. Before she climbed into the driver’s seat, she looked over her shoulder. Stiles was standing beside the Jeep watching her.

“Thank you,” she had mouthed, unsure of her voice. He had given her a little wave, his expression somber. She waited until she was home, in her bed, before she cried again.

“Lydia, dinner’s ready!” Her mother calls from inside the house. She slowly stands.

Maybe she and Jackson had fallen out of love long before he died and came back to life.

She gently twists from side to side.

Or perhaps they had never really loved each other at all.

I am not a damsel in distress who needs someone to fix her, she thinks as she walks into the house.

She can fix herself.

*******

Know your enemy, she thinks. Especially if your enemy is a fucking werewolf.

She starts by researching supernatural lore. During their Skype conversations, she asks Allison to tell her about her family’s history and what she knows about the bestiary. Her thirst for knowledge, as always, is insatiable. But, her nightmares are taking a toll on her…

She feels unraveled. Like a single string pulled taut.

She decides that she needs to do something, to talk to someone, about what she has found. So, she calls the one person she thinks probably knows as much as she does about the subject, if not more.

Stiles.

“Hello?” He answers a little hesitantly.

“Hi, Stiles. It’s Lydia. Lydia Martin,” she says in a rush. She covers her eyes with her right hand. She knows she has no reason to be nervous - it’s just Stiles, after all - but admitting that she needs help has always been awkward for her.

“Yeah, I know,” he replies after a beat, confusion evident in his tone. She forces herself to take a breath before answering.

“I’ve been doing some research on the crazy stuff that happens in this town. You wanna meet for coffee so we can compare notes?” She asks.

“I’ll buy,” she adds after he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally replies.

“Great. I’ll meet you at Tully's in an hour,” she says, hanging up before he can protest.

She goes to her closet and pulls out an old, leather messenger bag that used to belong to her mother. It’s a little scuffed and worn, but she likes it. It reminds her of when she wanted to be an archaeologist and adventurer like Indiana Jones.

She carefully places her notes in the bag before glancing at herself in the mirror. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her face is bare. She wrinkles her nose and frowns slightly, pulling open the middle drawer of her vanity and rummaging around for her favorite red lipstick. She smiles as her eyes alight on the familiar black tube.

Painted lips make her feel less vulnerable.

***

Stiles is already sitting at a table outside the coffee shop when she arrives. His half-opened backpack is on the ground next to his chair. He’s drumming his fingers on the edge of the tabletop out of time to the soft, jazzy song playing in the background.

“Hey,” she says as she glides into the chair across from him. “Have you ordered yet?”

“No, I was waiting for you. You said you were buying,” he teases nervously, his knee bouncing.

“So I did,” she smiles. His hair is longer; it suites him.

She waves a waitress over so they can place their orders before pulling her notebook out of her bag.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring Scott,” she says as she flips through her notes.

“Oh,” Stiles shifts in his seat, slumping slightly. “He’s spending the day with his mom. She’s off work so they’re going to see a movie,” he explains.

“That’s nice,” Lydia says with a hint of surprise. She can’t remember the last time she saw one boy without the other.

“Yeah.”

“So,” Lydia continues, clearing her throat. “Did you bring your research?”

Stiles nods in affirmation.

“Great. I’ve been doing a lot of research of my own and I was hoping we could compare what we know.”

“That would be fan-fucking-tastic!” Stiles exclaims enthusiastically. Her nose wrinkles a little as she grins.

“Scott isn’t that interested in researching the supernatural,” Stiles clarifies a little sheepishly. “He’s too busy studying for the PSAT and completing his summer projects.”

“And you’re not?” Lydia asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Nah. We still have weeks before school starts. I have time,” he replies, his head down as he digs around in his backpack. Lydia smirks.

“I finished my projects weeks ago,” she says a little smugly. “And I took the PSAT freshman year.”

When Stiles looks up, his expression is a mixture of admiration and amusement. “Of course you did,” he says, “you’re Lydia Martin.”

She snorts quietly and pretends to focus more intently on her notes, trying to ignore the sudden heat in her cheeks. She taps her fingers on the table a little impatiently.

“Finally,” Stiles huffs as he pulls a notebook out of his backpack. Its cover is missing and its pages are coffee-stained. He shrugs at her look of incredulity.

“Hey, it looks better than the notebook I used for chemistry last year,” he says with a smile.

***

The first guy Lydia has sex with that summer is a recent graduate of Beacon Hills High School. He is tall, blonde, and seventeen with thin lips and a crooked smile. They meet at Starbucks one afternoon near the end of July.

Lydia invites him back to her mother’s empty house on a whim. It’s been months since she was intimate with anyone, and her body aches for affection. They kiss their way up the stairs to her bedroom, hastily kicking off their shoes and fumbling with each other’s clothes.

They are lying on her bed - her dress partially unbuttoned and its hem tickling the tops of her thighs - when he notices them. He pauses, his fingers hovering uncertainly over her scarred flesh. She places a hand in the middle of his chest and sits up to pull off her dress, but he stops her with a hard kiss, his hands moving to her thighs.

They fuck with their clothes still half on, his touch no longer tender.

After finishing, he slips the condom off and throws it away. She watches him from her position on the bed. He can’t meet her eyes as he buttons his jeans and pulls on his t-shirt. She stands and buttons her dress, smoothing the wrinkled material as best as she can with shaking hands.

He doesn’t say anything as she leads him down the stairs to the front door. The wooden floor is cool beneath her bare feet. He steps off the porch, hunching his shoulders as he turns to look at her.

“You’re the girl who was attacked on the lacrosse field and went crazy for awhile,” he says.

She firmly shuts the door in his face before sliding down the smooth, dark wood to curl up on the cold floor. She pulls her knees towards her rib cage as she clasps her hands together and presses them to her chest. A button from her dress digs into her palm.

Only after she hears his car backing down the driveway does she allow her face to crumble and her limbs to extend along the floor like those of a limp rag doll.

Face painted.

Stuffed with straw.

***

They fall into a routine, meeting for coffee or lunch at Tully’s once a week to compare theories and to discuss anything new they’ve come across in their respective research. The quiet, relaxing atmosphere is conducive to their animated discussions, as are the readily-available caffeinated beverages.

Stiles’ intellectual capability and capacity initially surprise her. She mentally scolds herself for this shallow-thinking. Sure, Stiles is a slacker, but that doesn’t mean he lacks intelligence. More often than not, she leaves their conversations feeling exhilarated because he challenges her.

We challenge each other, she muses.

It’s a refreshing change of pace from her typical conversations with individuals of the opposite sex.

***

The second guy she has sex with is a first-year art student at Berkeley.

She drives to the beach one morning in early August to dig her toes into the sand and read a book she found online about poltergeists and exorcisms. She plans on summarizing it for Stiles at their next meeting. She glances up as a thin shadow blocks the sun.

“Excuse me, did you fall from heaven?”

Lydia narrows her eyes and purses her lips, slowly closing her book. The guy standing in front of her is lean but muscular with dark hair and a watercolor tattoo of a bird on his shoulder.

“That’s your opener?” She asks with a smirk, leaning back. “Pathetic.”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” He responds with a smile, sitting next to her in the sand.

She rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses.

“That seems like a pretty dark subject for such a beautiful girl,” the boy notes as he cranes his head to read the title of her book. She casually opens her hand on the cover over the title and gives him what she knows is a dazzling, I-can-make-you-eat-out-of-the-palm-of-this-hand smile.

“I heard that it’s going to be the next _Twilight_ ,” Lydia lies, stuffing the book into the open beach bag beside her as his eyes unabashedly scan her body. He licks his lips and gives her a wolfish smile.

“And is it?” He inquires with a quirked eyebrow.

“Only time will tell,” she replies, her smile tightening slightly.

She ends up in the back seat of his car, one of the seat-belt holders digging into her lower back. Her breath hitches as he places her left leg over his shoulder and kisses his way up her thigh. Her navy bikini bottom dangles off her right ankle above the car’s carpeted floor.

As her toes curl in anticipation of her orgasm, she presses her hands flat against the door and arches her back. When he gently lifts her hips, she keens.

This is my body, she thinks as she balls her hands into fists. She will reclaim it with another’s rough hands and her own loud cries.

After she comes, he kisses her and repeats that she’s beautiful. She can taste herself on his lips.

If he notices her scars, he doesn’t mention them.

***

Stiles is postulating on the existence of unicorns when she admits to herself that she likes spending time with him. The humid day has left a slight sheen of sweat on his brow and his hair sticking up at odd angles. His amber eyes are bright and twinkling as he outlines his argument; his hands dart and flutter through the air as his enthusiasm grows.

When he wets his lips with his tongue, she briefly entertains the thought of kissing him.

“Lydia, is everything okay?” Stiles asks, interrupting her thoughts.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” She responds quickly, embarrassed that he caught her daydreaming.

“You just seem…” He waves his hands around distractedly. “You sure you’re okay?”

Lydia, who expected his response to fall into the typical realm of polite-but-ultimately-uninterested small talk, is surprised to find that the concern in his voice is genuine. Stiles leans forward and places his elbows on the table. His body seems unnaturally still.

“I just haven’t been sleeping well,” she concedes.

“Nightmares,” he nods in understanding.

She startles. “How did you-”

“I used to have them every night after my mom passed away,” Stiles admits, scratching at a spot on the table where the paint has chipped away. She senses that he has more to say so she remains quiet.

“They were really bad for a while,” he continues with a frown. “Doctors told my dad that I should try taking sleeping pills.”

Stiles pauses and takes a deep breath.

“My dad went through a rough time after mom died. He could barely take care of himself let alone an eleven year old kid with behavioral issues,” he says.

She knows all too well that the bitterness in his tone is reserved for himself - not his dad. She chews on the inside of her cheek and extends her left hand across the table, gently touching his arm with her fingertips. He glances at her hand before meeting her eyes.

“I don’t know what I would have done without Mrs. McCall,” Stiles admits with a shrug. “She and Scott helped me deal with my nightmares.”

“They mean a lot to you,” Lydia interjects softly, slowly retracting her hand.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits with a small smile. “They’re family.”

They sit in silence for a minute. Stiles takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper as Lydia stirs her coffee.

“Have you talked to anyone about them?” He asks. She shakes her head and grimaces.

“I’m not much of a sharer,” she replies.

Stiles narrows his eyes and tilts his head. She fidgets under the intensity of his gaze, flicking her long hair over her shoulder.

“Something tells me that that’s not entirely true,” he finally says. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to talk to about them.”

“I have Allison,” she huffs defensively, pulling her long hair into a messy bun.

Stiles gives her a pointed look.

“I just haven’t told her about them recently. I don’t want her to worry,” she finishes lamely. Stiles taps his pen on the table.

“You know that’s okay, right?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. “Not being ready to talk about them.”

She lowers her eyes as she considers opening herself up to him - the guy who saw through the first few layers of her facade even before the paint began to fade and chip away. Before it started to crack.

But, she can’t. She’s not ready.

Stiles turns his focus to the materials in front of him. His knee starts to bounce as he quickly flips through his unbound papers. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows nervously. Ink stains the heel of his right hand.

He clears his throat. “So, as I was saying, Ctesias describes-”

“Thanks, Stiles,” she interrupts.  She’s relieved and grateful that he doesn’t press her for more details. That he seems to understand.

His eyes are soft when he smiles.

“So,” she prompts after a moment, “unicorns.”

***

She meets her next fling at Danny’s annual end-of-the-summer barbeque. The guy is blonde and muscular with dark eyes and full lips that turn up at the corners.

She is sitting on one of the lawn chairs watching the partygoers and reflecting on the book about Japanese mythology she just finished when he approaches her.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. She shakes her head and takes a sip of her soda. He plops down with a sigh before extending his hand.

“Hi, I’m the token straight guy at this party,” he says with a flippant smile. Lydia returns his smile and shakes his hand. It’s true that most of the guys in attendance are gay; that’s one of the reasons why she felt comfortable accepting Danny’s invitation.

“Nice to meet you, token straight guy,” she replies.

“I don’t mean to be forward but you are gorgeous,” he says, leaning closer. His breath smells like beer - sour and stale. Lydia wrinkles her nose.

“Thanks,” she responds, her tone guarded. “So, how do you know Danny?”

He sits back in his chair with a shrug.

“Through a mutual friend. I’m actually here as my friend’s wingman.”

“You came here as a wingman?” Lydia smirks, nodding towards the collection of predominantly male partygoers dancing next to the pool.

“Yeah,” he winces slightly. “I was told there would be more girls.”

Lydia laughs.

“I’m kind of glad that there aren’t though,” he says slyly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

Lydia starts to reply but stops as she hears someone say her name

“That’s her. That’s Lydia Martin,” a guy slurs. She whips her head around to see a him pointing at her.

“She’s the one that went crazy,” he says louder. Her body tenses and eyes narrow. She sees Danny making his way over to the drunk individual.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she hears Danny say. People are starting to stare.

“Are you okay?” The boy next to her asks, putting his hand on her arm.

“Yeah,” she replies distractedly, turning to face him. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Sure,” he says, confused but compliant. Lydia stands and begins walking toward the front of the house. People are definitely starting to stare…

Danny catches her eye and mouths, “I’m sorry.” She nods and attempts a smile; she knows it looks more like a grimace.

“I’m Trevor by the way,” the boy says, stumbling slightly behind her.

“Lydia,” she says over her shoulder.

She drives them to the lake house. To fill the awkward silence, Trevor prattles on about the classes he plans on taking at the University of California, San Diego in the fall. She briefly entertains the thought of pulling over and getting this evening over with, but dismisses the idea almost immediately.

She’s already on edge and, apparently, on Beacon Hills’ radar as the town whackjob; she doesn’t need anybody catching her having sex with a stranger in her car.

She grits her teeth and drives a little faster.

When they arrive, she walks ahead of Trevor into the house, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her sweater. As Trevor removes his shoes by the front door, she continues into the kitchen. She swings the freezer door open; the cold air stings her hot cheeks.

She can’t believe that happened at Danny’s house of all places. She’s furious at that drunk idiot for embarrassing her, at Beacon Hills for having a population of supernatural creatures that like to mess with her, and at herself for getting so worked up about it.

“Lydia?” Trevor calls from the foyer.

She takes a shaky breath and grabs a half-empty bottle of vodka. She takes three quick swigs before peeking around the corner; Trevor is nervously shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other.

“Here,” she says, placing the open vodka bottle on the counter and emerging from the kitchen.

“Hey,” he replies with a smile. “Everything good?”

Lydia pauses in the doorway.

My life feels like it’s unraveling and I need a distraction so I don’t go completely crazy, she thinks.

Again, she amends.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says.

***

“Is this thing with Trevor serious?” Allison asks. She’s talking to Lydia via Skype as she packs her bag in preparation for her flight back to California tomorrow.

“No,” Lydia responds. “He’s leaving for San Diego next week after we start school.”

Allison glances over her shoulder and gives Lydia a pointed look.

“I don’t have any plans on keeping in touch if that’s what you’re not asking,” she says haughtily.

“Does Trevor know that?”

“Of course,” Lydia shrugs, picking at a chip in her pink nail polish. She looks up when Allison doesn’t immediately respond and catches her shaking her head skeptically.

“Allison,” she huffs, “he knows that I’m just using him for sex.”

“If you say so Lydia,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes.

***

She has two voicemails from Stiles.

She canceled what was going to be their last meeting before school started. She claimed that she was still recovering from the shock of a deer running straight into her car.

It’s a little white lie with a hint of truth.

Her nightmares are also getting worse, and sex seems to be the only thing that helps her sleep. But, she doesn’t feel up to admitting that to anyone, including Allison.

I need a good night’s sleep before the first day of school, she tells herself as she sends a quick text to Trevor. It will be their last rendezvous before he leaves.

She opens her voicemail and deletes both messages without listening to them.

It’s only later, when she’s lying in bed beside a snoring Trevor, that she identifies the small ache in her chest as regret.

* * *

She just wants everything to go back to normal once school starts up again.

It’s possible, she thinks, now that Allison and Scott have broken up and the Argents are no longer hunters. They can move on with their lives - without the constant threat of an impending supernatural disaster - and she’ll do all the things a normal teenage girl should be doing.

People will forget that she was attacked on the lacrosse field and lost her mind. She will stop waking up screaming because of her nightmares.

Her scars will be just scars instead of a constant reminder of what happened to her and what she did.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

***

“I want one,” she says to Allison.

“Which one?” Allison asks with amusement.

“The straight one, obviously.”

***

She apparently attracts a type: homicidal werewolves (or would-be-werewolves) with anger problems. She almost finds the whole situation humorous.

Almost.

“Aiden isn’t a good guy,” Allison tells her matter-of-factly. “He and Ethan are part of the Alpha Pack.”

“And?” Lydia asks as she reapplies her lipstick.

“He’s dangerous, Lydia. He can’t be trusted.”

She gently smacks her lips together and wipes away a small smudge of lipstick with her pinkie finger. She’s tired of people treating her like she can’t take care of herself.

Like a porcelain doll. Cracked. Chipped. Faded.

Scarred.

She thought Allison, of all people, would understand.

“I can handle him,” she replies lightly, meeting Allison’s worried gaze in the mirror.

“Lydia-”

“I said I can handle him,” she snaps, zipping her purse. “I’ve handled worse.”

Allison’s expression is grim. Silence fills the room like fog, expanding to fill each crack and corner. Lydia struggles to keep her spine straight as the weight of Allison’s disapproval and her own insecurity settles over her shoulders like a heavy winter coat.

“Allison, I can do this,” she says quietly, “I promise.”

After a moment, Allison sighs with resignation, “Just be careful, please.”

She nods, “Always.”

***

“What am I, a nun? Put your hands somewhere useful,” she purrs.

Aiden grips her hips and lifts her on top of the desk, his breath hot against her neck. He pulls her closer with a low growl as his lips brush against her exposed collarbone.

His fingernails scraping against the skin of her lower back almost make her to forget the dead body by the pool. Its gaping mouth and wide eyes. The small clouds of mist rising from the warm blood still trickling down its neck, bruised black and blue from the bite of the garrote.

There had been so much blood...

She leans away from him briefly to catch her breath.

Focus Lydia, she thinks.

Aiden’s hands move to unbutton her shirt. His eyes are half-closed, his irises red. Lydia inhales sharply as the office’s cool air hits her exposed chest.

His hands paw inexpertly at her breasts, and she wonders if his other lovers found his lack of experience or talent endearing. He presses against her, using his hands to firmly push her onto her back. She bites her bottom lip as her shirt falls open and the rest of her torso is revealed.

Aiden pauses, one hand hovering over her left side. His mouth thins as he takes a step back. She realizes that he’s noticed her scars. Lydia sits up quickly, pulling her shirt closed.

Aiden looks her up and down with his red eyes. His nostrils flare as he takes in her scent.

“You’re not a werewolf,” he says warily.

He chews on the inside of his cheek as she watches him from her perch on the desk. She notes that he doesn’t seem angry - just confused.

Welcome to the club, she thinks bitterly.

Aiden steps forward and nudges her knees apart with his hips. She supposes that whatever he’s thinking isn’t enough to make him forget about his erection. Or, make him not want to do anything about it.

Lydia’s a genius. She knows that Aiden is using her. The concern expressed by Allison, Scott, and Stiles about her relationship with him only confirms this.

Aiden pops open the button of her jeans and pulls down the zipper, slipping a hand inside. Her mouth falls open with a long sigh as she arches her back, her hands clutching the edge of the desk. Aiden’s mouth returns to her chest and she moans as he pushes a finger inside her.

It pisses her off that he’s trying to use her to get to her friends. But, she’s a big girl. She knows the ins-and-outs of this type of relationship. She’s been practicing and perfecting it all summer.

She takes solace in the fact that she’s using him too. 

* * *

She can’t hear anything over the frantic beating of her heart in her ears.

This has to be a dream, she lies to herself, tension skipping down her spine and vibrating through her body. She clenches her hands into fists and grits her teeth as she sways on her wedges.

Unfortunately, she knows that this hellish night is all too real.

The cuffs of her jean jacket are soaked from when she and Stiles desperately tried to pry the heavy safe off Boyd earlier; they chafe against the thin skin of her wrists. A wicked wind whips around her ankles and ruffles Allison’s dark hair.

“There’s always hope,” Allison says, her voice quiet and unsteady.

Scott’s face is distorted by pain and fear. The flickering light of the flare glints off his wet face, and drops of gas drip off his chin. Stiles’ back is unnaturally straight. She can see the tension building in his shoulders. His hands are shaking as he determinedly steps further into the puddle of gasoline that surrounds them both.

Lydia’s mouth opens slightly, her lips moving wordlessly, as the full horror of the night climbs up her spine and settles painfully behind her eyes. A scream crawls its way up her throat, leaving her windpipe raw. Her chest aches from holding her breath.

She remembers one sunny afternoon in mid-August when she and Stiles met Scott in the Reserve. The day had been hot and dry. The air had smelled musty - like warm earth and dead leaves.

“Are you ready?” Scott had asked nervously.

She had told Stiles that she wanted to see Scott transform so she could better understand werewolf physiology. She hadn’t told Stiles that she also wanted to face her fears in the sun.

Stiles, who knew how much research she had already conducted, hadn’t pressed her for a more substantial explanation; she suspected that he understood the real reason why she had wanted to see Scott  transform in person.

“Yes,” she had replied in what she hoped was a steady voice.

Scott had given her a small smile before closing his eyes, his nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed in concentration. She watched as the planes of his face shifted, hair sprouted on his forehead and cheeks, his shoulders broadened, and his fingernails extended into sharp claws. When he opened his eyes again, they were gold. He smiled and she saw his elongated fangs.

“Pretty cool, right?” Stiles had interjected, moving to stand beside Scott and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Just another version of man’s furry best friend.”

Scott elbowed Stiles gently in the side before turning his yellow gaze back to a still-silent Lydia.

“Everything okay?” He had asked softly. The new roughness in his voice surprised her. She nodded and stepped closer.

“May I?” She had asked, holding up one of her hands. Scott stood still as Stiles shifted to stand beside her. Sunlight glinted off the gold rings on her thumb and middle finger.

She glanced quickly at Stiles, who turned his baseball cap backwards with a smile and made a vague affirmative gesture in Scott’s direction.

The contrast between the softness of his skin and the coarseness of his hair surprised her. She noted the changes in the shape of his skull and the way his long teeth pushed his lips into a pout. Her fingertips lightly grazed his jaw and he jumped.

“Ticklish,” he had muttered as Stiles laughed.

She reached for one of his hands and studied his claws.

“Does it hurt?” She had asked. “When you transform?”

“Not really,” he had replied with a shrug. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”

She nodded thoughtfully still studying his hand.

“But, pain can cause werewolves to become human again,” he had added. “According to Derek, pain helps to keep us from losing control.”

“That sounds like something the Flagellants of the Medieval period would say about curbing their desires,” she had responded with pursed lips.

“I’m sorry. Did you say flatulence?” Stiles had asked gleefully. She rolled her eyes, dropping Scott’s hand and slapping Stiles on the shoulder.

“Idiot,” she had smirked. “You know exactly what I said.”

“Yeah, I just couldn’t pass up that opportunity,” he had admitted with a grin. “Besides, I would be more inclined to use flatulent to describe Scott versus flagellant.”

Lydia noted that Scott’s nostrils flared when he growled.

“Juvenile,” Stiles had tsked, turning his back on Scott and Lydia. She looked Stiles up and down before turning her attention back to Scott.

“So, how fast can you run?” She had whispered mischievously. Scott smiled slowly.

“Fast enough to catch him,” he had replied with a wink.

“Good,” she had whirled around with a flourish. “Stiles, I would start running.”

How did it go from that to this, she thinks bitterly as Stiles slowly extends his hand to remove the flaming flare from Scott’s loose grasp.

We are just kids; we are not equipped to handle this.

As Stiles gently pulls the flare out of Scott’s hand, her body quivers like the string of Allison’s bow after releasing an arrow.

She tracks the flying flare’s short arc before it hits the asphalt. Her chest expands as it rolls toward the line of gas leading to the larger puddle where Scott and Stiles still stand.

“No!” She hears herself yell. Her throat burns as if her exclamation had been torn from it with a set of hot prongs. She lunges forward into Stiles, who wraps his arms around Scott as they fall to the ground. The momentum of her body pushing them out of the fire’s range and into relative safety.

Waves of sound wash over her body as she lies protectively over Stiles. Her heart beats erratically at the sight of that vengeful face in the fire.

“No,” she repeats again, quieter this time, her voice cracking. She clutches Stiles’ sweatshirt with trembling hands, gasping for breath.

“Lydia,” she hears Allison say from far away. “Lydia, you can let go.”

“No,” she says, burying her face in Stiles’ neck, the hood of his sweatshirt muffling her cries.

“Lydia,” Allison repeats. “It’s okay. We’re all okay.”

Lydia continues to cry, her voice hoarse.

“Lyds,” she hears Stiles whisper, his breath warm on her forehead. “It’s okay. You can let go.”

She slowly loosens her hands and shifts until she is sitting on the ground, her legs extended out in front of her. Allison kneels beside her, brushing Lydia’s hair our of her tear-stained face. Stiles pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, carefully sitting back on his heels to look at her. Scott sits beside him, dazed. Both boys smell like gasoline.

Her right knee is scraped and bleeding; her existing scar marred by tiny pieces of gravel and asphalt.

“Are you okay?” Allison asks worriedly as she mentally catalogues all of Lydia’s bumps, bruises, and scrapes. She doesn’t trust her voice to respond so she just nods.

Stiles moves a little closer. “Are you sure?” He asks. His eyes - wide with shock - search her face.

She shrugs a little uncertainly, and tightly grasps one of Allison’s hands. Scott shakes his head and pushes his dripping hair back from his forehead. She sees tears pooling in his eyes.

“Scott,” she croaks, releasing Allison’s hand and holding out her arms. Scott crawls towards her and pulls her into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs quietly. Lydia reaches around Scott for Allison and Stiles.

Together they sit in the parking lot of Motel California. Holding Scott. Holding each other.

“We know,” she whispers, meeting Stiles’ sad gaze over Scott’s shaking shoulder.

***

When they get back to Beacon Hills, Stiles offers to drive her home. Although their clothes have dried, the scents of sawdust, mold, smoke, and gasoline still linger.

I can’t wait to take a shower, she thinks.

Stiles pulls into her mom’s driveway and puts the Jeep in park. They sit in silence as the engine idles. The sun reflects off the mailbox and shines through the windshield. She turns, opening her mouth to speak just as Stiles clears his throat.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he says quickly. The top of his hair looks a little singed and there is a black smudge on his right temple. He chews on his bottom lip nervously as the fingers of his right hand tap a quick rhythm on the gear shift.

“For saving our lives,” he finishes.

Lydia swallows and nods, placing her hand on door handle as she considers whether or not she has the courage to say what she wants to next. She opens the door and hops out, turning around to grab her heavy bag off the floor of the Jeep. Stiles fiddles with the dials on his radio.

She makes her decision.

“Hey Stiles,” she says, her hand on the door ready to close it. He glances up and meets her eyes.

“Thanks for saving mine.”

Stiles face grows slack with shock, the question clear in his eyes.

“Allison told me last night after…” She trails off, averting her eyes so he can’t see the emotion bubbling up in them.

“Oh,” he clears his throat, “Yeah. Um. You’re welcome.”

She watches as he settles more comfortably in the Jeep’s bucket seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the console. He licks his lips.

“I guess we’re even now,” he continues, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. Lydia recognizes that neither of them are quite ready to talk about what happened last night, or that night last year on the lacrosse field.

She frowns. A strange feeling settles in her stomach, causing her reply to stick in her throat. She forces herself to return his close-lipped smile before shutting the Jeep’s door and walking towards the front porch.

Somehow she knows that this won’t be the last time that they have to protect each other

***

It’s only later, as she’s stepping out of the shower, that she identifies the feeling.

Dread.

***

No matter how many times she washes it, she’s never quite able to get the faint smell of gasoline out of her favorite jean jacket.

That’s okay, she thinks. It will remind her of what she learned at Motel California about the lengths she’s willing to go to in order to protect her friends.

***

The bruise that circles her wrist aches dully as she watches Stiles place a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

_I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive,_ beats the fast rhythm of her heart.

It makes her hate herself a little more.

Derek’s hands splash as they fall into the water flooding the loft. Boyd’s blood leaks out of his body and stains the man-made pool red.

She wonders how far that ripple will expand until the short waves created by everyone’s subdued movements break it apart.

***

Her fingernails dig into her palms as she meets Aiden’s gaze.

“You’re not just a bad boy, Aiden. You’re a bad guy,” she enunciates, “and I don’t want to be with one of the bad guys.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Jealous of the Moon" by Nickel Creek.
> 
> I would not have had the courage to publish this without the love and support of [Ashlynn](http://wernotthings.tumblr.com/) and [Alison](http://rossansguil.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading through every draft of this work and for putting up with all my self-doubt and crazy. You are amazing. I also have to thank my fellow Rachels ([rongasm](http://rongasm.tumblr.com/) and [itsalwayslydia](http://itsalwayslydia.tumblr.com/)) for encouraging and enabling my love of Lydia Martin. You inspired me to write this. I hope you enjoy it.


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